The Key to my Crazy
by Amidephrine
Summary: It is hard to find a key that doesn't exist to a door that shouldn't be opened, but Arthur can't seem to stop looking.


"Watch the cards, love."

Arthur's hands are a blur, but his eyes are only for the woman who stands before him, her face determined as she watches his flying fingers. There is a small group of people gathered around his table, all watching with a concentrated fascination.

With practised ease, the Englishman flips out one card and holds it up, without looking.

"This yours?"

There is a quiet murmur from the spectators, and the woman's face falls.

"No."

He falters, and flips the card towards him. He furrows heavy brows and bites his lip and for a moment, the woman has the ugly, distorted face of a demon.

"Ah," Arthur snaps and adorns his most charming smile. "You're quite right. My mistake."

The gentleman stands, leaning forward and watching confusion dance across the young woman's features. With hands moving like lightning, he has snatched something out of the folds of her jacket pocket. She is offended for only a moment before realizing what it was he has taken.

"This is the correct card, yes?"

Jack of Diamonds.

Her face lights up and she is amazed.

"How did you do that?"

There is a smattering of an applause, and Arthur stands to give a little bow, only to pause as his heart seizes in his chest: he is entertaining a crowd of monsters.

* * *

"Impressive."

Arthur is sitting in a very small room. There is only one light in his darkness and it comes from the oil lamp in the centre of the circular table he is seated at. Across from him, calmly sipping at a small cup of tea, is Arthur.

But the firelight is flickering on that Arthur's freckled face and it is clear that there are differences.

"But it's mediocre," he says, setting his cup down in his saucer. The not-quite-perfect reflection smiles sweetly, folding his hands in front of him on the table. "We could do much more, working together."

Arthur is silent as he watches the other. They share the same face, though they wear different expressions. The original is scowling and weary, while his paler, blue-eyed reflection is smiling and sweet.

"But, you know, as things are..." the reflection lifts his arms and rattles the chains around his wrists – the chains that connect to his ankles.

To the chair.

To the floor.

"There's little I can do to help you."

"I don't need your help."

The laugh that answers him is much too sweet to be genuine.

"Is that what _he's_ been telling you? My, pet, how whipped you've become."

The reflection's side of the table is set for dinner, and he lifts the knife and drags it slowly across his hand, smiling all the while. It is not the blue-eyed demon that withdraws or hisses in pain, but Arthur, turning up his own hand to frown at the blood in his palm.

* * *

Arthur tucks his right hand behind him as he bows, waving his other in a showy flourish. The monsters are gone and they are people again. The applause has died down, and the woman is gushing to her friend about his sleight of hand. He smiles at her, shaking his head as she asks for his secrets.

He considers doing another trick for the small gathering of pubgoers, until he feels the pricking on the back on his neck of a familiar presence. Before he can explain or even formally dismiss himself, he is being dragged out of the pub by his wrist.

"Alfred, please, let's not do this," he calls as he is dragged out onto the street.

Alfred does not answer. He continued to tow the smaller man away from the pub full of now uneasy patrons. He does not stop until they are alone on a quiet street.

When he does, he drops Arthur's hand.

"Where were you last night?" Alfred demands without turning.

Arthur does not want to lie, but he knows that the truth will hurt. He settles instead for silence.

The larger man turns fluidly, grabbing the Englishman's right hand and pulling him closer. His other hand pulls back Arthur's collar to uncover the incriminating evidence on his skin. Jade eyes look away guiltily, knowing there is hurt in Alfred's eyes but not having the spine to witness it for himself.

"Am I doing something wrong?" Alfred demands, exasperated, and Arthur has no answer to give. "Who was it?"

"Just someone I met at the bar," he mumbles, speaking to the wall and not to the frustrated American. "We were drunk, and she was all over me..."

But there are no excuses he can give that will save him.

"Just like the man you met at the club? Or the woman before that? Or any of the other times? You were drunk, and they were _throwing themselves at you_?"

A couple passes them nearby, and they keeps their heads down to avoid intruding. Arthur focuses on them regardless, grimacing when he realizes their faces are distorted and misshapen and unnatural. He withdraws, and Alfred steps in front of his line of sight.

Alfred is only Alfred – as he always is – and Arthur's eyes stay only on him now, afraid to see demons elsewhere.

It is then that the elder man realizes his partner is holding his right hand up by the wrist, and that Arthur is bleeding.

"When did you do this?" he shakes the limb for emphasis.

Arthur furrows his brow in confusion, only to pale when he notices the messy, jagged cut in his palm from where he broke his skin with his nails.

* * *

"Have you found it yet?"

The pale reflection is standing above him.

Arthur is sitting on the floor in the dark.

There is a messy pile of keys between them, and his reflection is standing expectantly, holding out his wrists and shaking the padlock that binds him.

"Hurry up and find it," the reflection is saying, and Arthur reaches forward hesitantly towards the pile.

* * *

"Empty your pockets."

It was the first thing Alfred had said since their fight on the street, and Arthur is surprised. They are in his apartment, and though the Englishman is shrugging off his jacket and toeing off his shoes, Alfred does not do the same. He is standing in foyer, lingering by the doorway.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your pockets, Arthur, empty them."

Arthur has removed his jacket and he holds it close to him possessively, but Alfred's tone is firm.

"Arthur."

Arthur withdraws for the second time - though he retreats away from Alfred and not the monsters. He realizes how he is reacting and pales, throwing his jacket at the elder man while simultaneously turning away with guilt. He can hear the American fumbling around in his pockets – he can hear the clink after clink of keys as they are dropped to the floor. There is even the occasional thump or thud of a wallet hitting the hardwood below.

Arthur does not turn back to witness his own crime. He instead faces the darkness of his unlit apartment, Alfred – and the light of the hallway – at his back.

"Arthur," Alfred's tone is gentle and tired and dismayed all at once. "We're going to return all of these."

And Arthur is panicked for only a moment, maintaining his composure despite the fear.

"Can I...Can I just check them? You know, overnight? I'll return them in the morning, I promise."

For quite a long time, there is a deafening silence in the room and Arthur can feel the way he is slowly curling in on himself. He is never answered with words, but there is a shuffle of footsteps and a firm slam.

Arthur is alone again, a pile of keys between him and the door. Alfred – and the light – was gone and there are monsters outside all over again.

* * *

"You don't need him," the other is saying. Arthur is on his knees in the dark, absently lifting a ring of keys. He runs his finger over the teeth of each and every one. His reflection is behind him, looping his arms – and the chains that bind his wrists – over the sandy blonde and hugging him close. "You have me."

"But I think I need him," Arthur whispers, faltering in his methodical checking of each key. The imperfect reflection notices his hesitation and hugs him tighter.

"You think a lot of crazy things, pet. Don't worry on it."

"Things are clearer when he's with me. Things are brighter."

"Arthur, dear, don't be selfish."

The Englishman flinches as if he were struck and curls in on himself for real this time, aware of how the imperfection was drawing him in closer; holding him tighter and soothing him with gentle strokes through his hair.

"Don't be selfish," the pale reflection repeats, reprimanding though his tone is pleasant and amiable. "Don't you see how much you bring him down?"

Those pets and strokes are soft and kind and Arthur can feel his body relaxing into them.

"You're a pain to deal with, love, and you know it. I'm the only one who'll tolerate you. You're batty, Arthur, a mental disaster: a schizophrenic illusionist afraid of faces. Who are you to demand he put up with you?"

The reflection's hands are over his own, guiding him to pick up another set of keys.

"But _I_ don't mind it, pet, I _want_ to be with you. I _want_ to help you, and you can be as selfish as you want with me."

Arthur drags his finger over the teeth of the key and something begins to churn in his stomach. It is changing shape in his hands, and it is colder than ice between his fingers.

_This is the one._

But if the reflection notices, he pretends not to. His hands are buried in Arthur's hair again, and the original is being pulled back against the other's chest.

"Just set me free, pet." That voice drops and it is no longer sweet and kind and innocent, but twisted and dark and demanding. "_Just set me free._"

* * *

Arthur is a nervous wreck as he pushes his way through the crowds of people. He avoids looking anywhere but at the ground – afraid of seeing the monsters and the demons in place of where the humans should be. Today they are everywhere. Nowhere is safe.

_You have it._

The Englishman tightens his grip on the key in his hand, holding it to his chest protectively.

_You have it,_ the voice repeats, dangerous and terrifying and projected from the back of his mind.

"I'm not letting you out," he says aloud, and one of the creatures gives him a strange look as he passes. He ducks his head, walks faster and hides his face behind the high collar of his jacket.

"I won't be your tool."

The voice is angry and intelligible, but Arthur pushes on. He walks quickly with his head down into a tall building. He passes the receptionist without a word and slips quickly into an empty elevator. He jams the button for the penthouse and hops anxiously from foot to foot as the little box begins its slow climb to the top.

* * *

"You have it!"

He is shoved back quite suddenly and he cries out when the back of his skull connects with the elevator wall. Arthur slides to the floor in a daze, watching through a heavy fog as his distorted reflection wrenches the key from his white-knuckled grip. The white flat of metal is jammed into the locks on his wrists, then on his ankles, and then the other is standing over him and the chains are gone.

There is a wicked smile on that freckled face and the paler other steps over him. He crouches, and presses his forehead into Arthur's, blue eyes burning into green.

"Love, I do this for you," he purrs, settling on his knees and straddling the original. "I do this to save you. I'm going to help you." Those pale hands drift up, wrapping around Arthur's throat, his touch featherlight and gentle. "I'm going to help you," he says again, and the stranglehold begins to tighten. "I'm gonna make all the crazy go away. You can let me do it – I'll be the crazy one. I'll save you, pet."

Over the imperfection's shoulder, Arthur can see the floor display for the elevator slowly counting up, lifting him higher and higher into the sky. His lungs are burning and his throat hurts, but something about those numbers draws him out of his haze. He furrows his brow and settles his hands on the reflection's shoulders. He does not push him away – but pulls him closer.

"I don't need _your_ help," he repeats at last, his voice hoarse. "I don't need _you."_

* * *

"Arthur?"

The Englishman blinks himself out of his stupor, slowly pulling his hands away from his throat, staring at them with a twinge of satisfaction. Alfred is there suddenly, pulling him up to his feet and out of the elevator. They are in the penthouse office – Alfred's office.

"What are you doing here? Are you okay?"

Maybe Arthur would've been more prompt with his answer, but he was drawn into a tight hug and held close. The sandy blonde felt warm and loved and welcome, and took a few moments to return the embrace and savour it. When Alfred pulls away, those bright blue eyes search his face, seeking the answer that Arthur had yet to give.

"I'm sorry," he said, "for making you worry about me all the time."

Alfred narrows his eyes and checks him over again – likely looking for cuts or bruises.

"Are you okay?" he repeats sternly.

"N-not completely, no," Arthur says with a smile. "But I want you...I want you to know that I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I'm gonna try and be better, okay? For you."

Alfred is staring, unsure how to react.

"I mean...It won't be perfect...but it'll be me...and I will try...just...I'm sorry that I'm so selfish."

He is drawn into another hug and he can hear the younger man let out a long sigh of relief.

"Don't apologize for that, you dummy. I want to be with you. You're not selfish."

Those words made Arthur soar.

* * *

He is there to meet Alfred when the man gets off work later. He is standing tall and proud and not hiding under a large coat or behind a high collar. When the younger man approaches him, he is smiling, and Arthur smiles back. Alfred extends his hand, and the shorter blond takes it. He finds his eyes drawn up to the American's face, and he is warmed by the smile he is given. That warmth seems to leak out into their surroundings, brightening Arthur's world and keeping the demons at bay.

"Hey," Arthur says. Alfred raises an eyebrow curiously. "Thank you."

"You're welcome! ...But what'd I do?"

The shorter man looks around once more – his eyes lingering on the faces of the people around them. The monsters are fading away, replaced with other humans who laugh and chat and smile, just as they did. He doesn't know how to explain it. He can't simply put words to the feeling of relief. He can't describe the joy he feels to see other _people_ instead of strange shapes and creatures. So he turns back, shakes his head and laughs.

"Just...Thank you."

* * *

**Yeah I was inspired by a short film I saw today and then this happened.**

**Please, let me know what you think: your reactions, your feedback, your interpretations - I'd love to hear them all.**

**Thanks so much for giving this a read and I look forward to hearing from you.**

**Until next time**

**Ami.**


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